(no subject)
Title: The Air Is Running Out
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Kate
Word Count: 1,054
Rating: R
Prompt: #36 - Quickie for lostpicksix
Timeline: Somewhere between 4x10 - "Something Nice Back Home" and 3x22 - "Through The Looking Glass"
Author's Note: So I can't write Lost, or I couldn't, and what better way to fix that then going back to my roots, which is to say "here's your Jate smut, would you like fries with that".
Summary: This is such a ridiculous departure from the once upon a time where they were what people would call happy and in love, and yet they've never gotten along quite this well since long before either of them can remember.
The rain soaks through his white dress shirt, an unfortunate choice for both the weather and the situation he hadn’t planned. They do this sometimes.
(Now that’s an understatement isn’t it? But it had been her standing next to his car in the parking lot of the hospital that first time. He isn’t completely to blame, and that’s what’s become important in this relationship of failed attempts. It’s not my fault).
Back in the parking lot again, this time a grocery store, and it took him forever to find her car. It’s a new make, model, color, on purpose. It means stop following me. Jack’s finally out of that habit of taking orders without complaining (the island made sure of that).
He isn’t there two minutes before the rain starts. Now it’s going on eight and he keeps his eyes trained on the doors at all times (he doesn’t bother to call her, knows she won’t answer; they work better when it all about impulse and spontaneity).
Ten minutes on the dot he sees her, shopping bags in hand, making some sort of mad dash out of the store to her car. Kate breaks her stride, her foot slipping a little, not enough to send her to the ground, just enough to stop her. Just enough for him to watch the play of emotions in her eyes as she realizes why he’s here, what that means to her, and how this is going to end, all in one quick second.
Like he said, they’ve done this before.
Wordlessly, she unlocks the doors, shoves the groceries in the trunk. When she looks up he has his hand on the door handle, asking permission, and she only nods.
Jack kisses her before her door is even fully closed. One hand on her cheek, fingers tangling in wet waves, he pulls her closer to him (they’re never close enough), breathing the ‘missed you’ he refuses to say into her mouth. She slams the door shut with one hand, grabs onto him with the other, to the shirt that’s stuck to his skin by now, shifting so that the armrest between them isn’t such an obstacle (he hates this car already; it’s not very accommodating).
They’re breathing hard by the time they pull apart, whether from the cold or something like anticipation, and Kate gestures to all the people in the parking lot, all the people that can see them, as if to say ‘not here’, without actually saying it.
(And, you know, communication was their problem - one of their many problems, just maybe the worst - and wouldn’t it figure that they aren’t talking at all now. Except they get along now better than they ever did, and that’s what confuses him the most; they’re best when they aren’t together, at least not trying to be)
They wind up pulling off to the side of the road on the highway that’s ten minutes away, somewhere they can’t be seen, and then picking up right where they left off, like someone had shifted their finger off the ‘pause’ button and back onto the ‘play’.
She’d turned on the heat when they started driving and it’s taken some of the chill away from their skin, drying their clothes so that they’re damp instead of dripping. It doesn’t make them any easier to get off but if nothing else they are both very determined. He can hear the cars rush by outside, see the headlights just off to their right, and it adds to the sense of urgency that’s got his fingers in such a frenzy to get her top off, to slip below the waistband of her jeans.
Kate climbs over the armrest, so that she ends up sitting in his lap instead, granting him total access, and she has his pants undone in seconds, even after almost ramming her elbow into the window. They could push the seats back, it might give them more room, but that would take too much time.
He kisses from her collarbone right on down to her breasts, his tongue swirling around her nipple in that way that makes her moan, makes her grind into him, and moments later they’ve managed to divest themselves of the rest of their clothes, not surprisingly.
She lowers her body on to him, thighs clenching around his hips, as if to pull him deeper and he groans against her throat, low and just this side of satisfied (the rain is falling in sheets now, so much so that if he were looking, and he really isn’t looking at much other than the backs of his eyelids and her, he thinks he wouldn’t see much but a gray blur, streaked with bright yellows and reds).
Here’s where this becomes different than before (the once upon a time where they were what people would call happy and in love, the perfect little family despite circumstances, perhaps because of circumstances): her nails dig hard into the muscle of his shoulder, hard enough to hurt, and she doesn’t have to care; he’ll bite down on her lower lip sometimes, drawing one tiny droplet of blood that he can more taste than see. They both leave marks. Neither of them really care anymore (they’re just souvenirs after all, of a life they more floated through than lived).
Kate comes silently, perfected from all those times before, trying to keep their voices down so that they didn’t wake up Aaron. Even when they didn’t have to worry about him hearing she was still soundless, the only giveaway the change in her breathing.
(The paranoid part of him, the part that seems to be so rapidly overtaking the rest of him, wonders if maybe it had nothing to do with Aaron, that it had something to do with keeping names, people, straight, not that he will ever voice that question).
Afterwards, when they’ve pulled apart, they scramble for their clothes, and she drives back to that grocery store parking lot. She doesn’t take him to his car (the rain has slowed to a gentle, non-threatening drizzle now). They don’t say goodbye either. But when he turns around, thirty feet from the car, he can still see her face in the window, her eyes watching him.
Just like this, he doesn’t know what that means either.
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Kate
Word Count: 1,054
Rating: R
Prompt: #36 - Quickie for lostpicksix
Timeline: Somewhere between 4x10 - "Something Nice Back Home" and 3x22 - "Through The Looking Glass"
Author's Note: So I can't write Lost, or I couldn't, and what better way to fix that then going back to my roots, which is to say "here's your Jate smut, would you like fries with that".
Summary: This is such a ridiculous departure from the once upon a time where they were what people would call happy and in love, and yet they've never gotten along quite this well since long before either of them can remember.
The rain soaks through his white dress shirt, an unfortunate choice for both the weather and the situation he hadn’t planned. They do this sometimes.
(Now that’s an understatement isn’t it? But it had been her standing next to his car in the parking lot of the hospital that first time. He isn’t completely to blame, and that’s what’s become important in this relationship of failed attempts. It’s not my fault).
Back in the parking lot again, this time a grocery store, and it took him forever to find her car. It’s a new make, model, color, on purpose. It means stop following me. Jack’s finally out of that habit of taking orders without complaining (the island made sure of that).
He isn’t there two minutes before the rain starts. Now it’s going on eight and he keeps his eyes trained on the doors at all times (he doesn’t bother to call her, knows she won’t answer; they work better when it all about impulse and spontaneity).
Ten minutes on the dot he sees her, shopping bags in hand, making some sort of mad dash out of the store to her car. Kate breaks her stride, her foot slipping a little, not enough to send her to the ground, just enough to stop her. Just enough for him to watch the play of emotions in her eyes as she realizes why he’s here, what that means to her, and how this is going to end, all in one quick second.
Like he said, they’ve done this before.
Wordlessly, she unlocks the doors, shoves the groceries in the trunk. When she looks up he has his hand on the door handle, asking permission, and she only nods.
Jack kisses her before her door is even fully closed. One hand on her cheek, fingers tangling in wet waves, he pulls her closer to him (they’re never close enough), breathing the ‘missed you’ he refuses to say into her mouth. She slams the door shut with one hand, grabs onto him with the other, to the shirt that’s stuck to his skin by now, shifting so that the armrest between them isn’t such an obstacle (he hates this car already; it’s not very accommodating).
They’re breathing hard by the time they pull apart, whether from the cold or something like anticipation, and Kate gestures to all the people in the parking lot, all the people that can see them, as if to say ‘not here’, without actually saying it.
(And, you know, communication was their problem - one of their many problems, just maybe the worst - and wouldn’t it figure that they aren’t talking at all now. Except they get along now better than they ever did, and that’s what confuses him the most; they’re best when they aren’t together, at least not trying to be)
They wind up pulling off to the side of the road on the highway that’s ten minutes away, somewhere they can’t be seen, and then picking up right where they left off, like someone had shifted their finger off the ‘pause’ button and back onto the ‘play’.
She’d turned on the heat when they started driving and it’s taken some of the chill away from their skin, drying their clothes so that they’re damp instead of dripping. It doesn’t make them any easier to get off but if nothing else they are both very determined. He can hear the cars rush by outside, see the headlights just off to their right, and it adds to the sense of urgency that’s got his fingers in such a frenzy to get her top off, to slip below the waistband of her jeans.
Kate climbs over the armrest, so that she ends up sitting in his lap instead, granting him total access, and she has his pants undone in seconds, even after almost ramming her elbow into the window. They could push the seats back, it might give them more room, but that would take too much time.
He kisses from her collarbone right on down to her breasts, his tongue swirling around her nipple in that way that makes her moan, makes her grind into him, and moments later they’ve managed to divest themselves of the rest of their clothes, not surprisingly.
She lowers her body on to him, thighs clenching around his hips, as if to pull him deeper and he groans against her throat, low and just this side of satisfied (the rain is falling in sheets now, so much so that if he were looking, and he really isn’t looking at much other than the backs of his eyelids and her, he thinks he wouldn’t see much but a gray blur, streaked with bright yellows and reds).
Here’s where this becomes different than before (the once upon a time where they were what people would call happy and in love, the perfect little family despite circumstances, perhaps because of circumstances): her nails dig hard into the muscle of his shoulder, hard enough to hurt, and she doesn’t have to care; he’ll bite down on her lower lip sometimes, drawing one tiny droplet of blood that he can more taste than see. They both leave marks. Neither of them really care anymore (they’re just souvenirs after all, of a life they more floated through than lived).
Kate comes silently, perfected from all those times before, trying to keep their voices down so that they didn’t wake up Aaron. Even when they didn’t have to worry about him hearing she was still soundless, the only giveaway the change in her breathing.
(The paranoid part of him, the part that seems to be so rapidly overtaking the rest of him, wonders if maybe it had nothing to do with Aaron, that it had something to do with keeping names, people, straight, not that he will ever voice that question).
Afterwards, when they’ve pulled apart, they scramble for their clothes, and she drives back to that grocery store parking lot. She doesn’t take him to his car (the rain has slowed to a gentle, non-threatening drizzle now). They don’t say goodbye either. But when he turns around, thirty feet from the car, he can still see her face in the window, her eyes watching him.
Just like this, he doesn’t know what that means either.